Old Faithful
by Lunamaria
Summary: I am faithful, that is what I know.


_Old Faithful  
><em>companion to The Gospel of Donald

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I don't like to hurt people, honest. I don't like war, and I don't like fighting. I don't like to think that there are creatures out there that aren't good, that do like war and hurt and fighting. I don't like knowing that there is darkness everywhere, anywhere, even in the light. I don't. But I think a part of me always knew somewhere, inside myself even, that darkness existed. And the day the king vanishes I know without question. Kings don't vanish because the worlds are safe, no they don't. They magic themselves away, searching for answers, because there is much that needs fixing. Eventually comes the day I learn just how very much I don't like to hurt others, the day I learn of the doors and the keys and the one key - and the creatures without hearts. Without hearts, oh, God.

The hardest part of it all is leaving my son. He's young, like the boy with the key - only, as I sweep tears from my eyes and hold my son close, I really don't know anything about the key bearer. The boy who, so much like my son, is to become my dear, dear friend. My salvation, even. But Max, he understands so well, even without a mother to soften him. He doesn't cry or beg me to stay (oh, I wish he'd done it), but he polishes my shield for me and holds my hand for an awful long time. Then he nods as we are summoned, Donald and I, to the ship. I embrace him again and the last thing said is, "Be safe," and we are gone. Like our king, a magic trick. We are off to hurt people in the name of the light. I just don't know.

Finding the key takes a fortitude that I am not really ready for. But I have faith, because I am, all things considered, a faithful dog. Our beloved king is strong and brave and sharp, so this key has to mean something. All the traveling and clandestine meetings, narrowly escaping the creatures with heart-shaped hollows carved through their black flesh, means something. I don't know what, but all things considered, I am faithful, not a knowing king. I'm ardent, but dull. So I turn my shield into something I never thought it could (should) be - sharp, powerful and mighty. I do it because, even if it isn't a true shield anymore, it protects. It does. Even my eyes can see that.

I think of it daily, that assurance. Some days it is all that keeps me going. But it is a strong thing, a very sincere truth that keeps me faithful and determined and hopeful. I am already fighting a war for a darned fine king and our worlds - I don't need to start one within myself too. It is temping, but, gosh, it is no good and just the sort of thing that can put my friends in even graver danger. All aside, it is not my fault or Donald's or Sora's or Mickey's, this mess. We didn't send darkness lurching world to world, swallowing souls and stealing bodies. We do all that we can to protect those souls and bodies, and that is key. It has to be done, if things are to go on peacefully ever again. Another good truth.

Lots of times I think of Maxie. Because even though I am doing something good, it is never easy. My son has no mother and, for all it matters, no papa. Left in the welcoming arms of an understanding kingdom, I am sure he wonders, as I do, if I am ever to return. Will he resent me, hate me, dismiss me - or, worst of all - forget me? I wipe a tear then, my tired fingers aching for my son's hand. Will that hand be little when I return, or? Will I even see it again, hold it, wrap it in my own? I want for it so badly I think of running away. But all I do, all of it, I do for him. It's got to be done, and somebody's got to do it. In a tragic kind of solidarity, I am not alone. Donald's left his family and sorcery behind, worried and frightened and confused as can be. He may know it or not, but I see his terror. I see his fear. Sometimes feel it too. And Mick has, for all appearances, vanished into the thinnest of thin air. We know differently, that he fights a war silently and in the shadows - a place that brings a shudder to my spine. And Sora's entire life is uprooted and, essentially, gone. How can I run when they do not? Am I more important?

I am not.

I am faithful, that is what I know. There is darkness that may, or may not be, completely evil through and through - and how I wish we had options other than turning shields into swords and magic into fire and lightning and wallowing gravity. But I didn't write the universe, didn't decide that creatures, _people_ even, could be without hearts and want for them so badly. I would give them hearts if I could. But I cannot. And so they spirit them away and, longing aside, that is as wrong as anything I've ever heard. They do not have hearts, but that doesn't mean, and I put my life on this, they can simply take them. It is darkness, a thing that frightens me. But it also strengthens my will and my faith. It is wrong and so I must do what I think to be right, for my son who has his own beautiful heart. Perfect for nobody who wants to be somebody. Truly. My son's heart is out there, and so I am here to keep it safe. I'm here, and he is there, hopefully not forgetting. Oh, please, remember me. I'd give anything. I crush another tear under my thumb, resolute but heartsick.

When it is the end, years and years later, I return. I find that I no longer dream in sound, however. All that transpires as I sleep remains as silent as a whisper, like world has been set to low. I dream both scary and happy things, but, and pay attention here, without a scant of regret. Silent things mostly, like I've forgotten how to right and properly dream. Isn't that awfully strange? I do though, dream of caped villains and people with no thumping in their chests. But also of gardens and waterfalls and cotton candy. Sometimes of the bones I have buried, farther and farther into the history of the dirt. I don't dream of Max, though. Not even quietly. Not once.

But that's all for the best, I believe. It makes me want to live which, sometimes, I try awful hard to do and can't. I wake up and see the ceiling and hear happy, chipper birds outside my window and cry, just cry. About what I've seen and done, about Max's mother, about Max. For myself, sometimes, because I need that too. It takes me a whole year to even touch my shield again, another two to resume my position in the King's Guard. I don't ever dream of Max, and it is for my own sake. I live to see him, and to see a beautiful world in which he can safely live. It's why I touch my shield again; it's the reason for everything.

Despite everything, I am not sure that I can be a father anymore, or that my son will ever long for me again. We're tentative, but remembered - and that is something. That is everything. I love him more than I'll ever love anyone, and he often assures me the same. "I would have gone for you, dad," he says, head on my shoulder as we lay across the palace lawn. "If I only could'a." A pause, filled with longing and sadness and love. "I really love you, dad," he says. "I just really love you." As I've said, that is everything.

"I love you too, son," I say.

The sound eventually returns.


End file.
